


Fallout: Blood Trail (Oneshot)

by DaLewisII



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaLewisII/pseuds/DaLewisII
Summary: An NCR soldier is sent on a mission into the the heart of the Mexican Wasteland. An extinct enemy reappears along with new threats, in an adventure to find a promised land and secure the survival of the young nation...(Oneshot)
Kudos: 1





	Fallout: Blood Trail (Oneshot)

Rob. Co. Terminal No. 51352788-MX  
Entry No.000001

Author: Leftenant Mark Herrera  
Date: 09-21-2077  
Location: Puebla Valley, Central Mexico

Dear diary,

I’m not even patrolling the Mojave anymore, and I still wish for a nuclear winter. Pablo says he lived through one of those down south some decades ago.

It’s been 299 days, I still remember her cheeks. I still remember how that beautiful blushed redhead had her way with me back at the Top’s. The Mojave sun fell over the windows of our room, casting a shadow over those wide hips and plump body of hers.

Being assigned to Mexico could be the second biggest milestone of my life, the first one being having that beauty make me a man.

At first it seemed like the dream of all NCR soldier who heard the Rangers and their stories: Explore the frontier, fighting creatures on the wild, protecting the innocent, taming the southern wasteland. Soon enough, I discovered it’s just another plan to outsmart the other nations out there. They just picked me and promoted me to Leftenant because I knew how to follow orders and barely spoke any Spanish.

Gotta admit it is a good plan though. “The Two Heads of the Bear” they dubbed the operation. We would occupy territory as a diplomatic mission to later be annexed. Try to pull off what we failed on New Vegas. Securing a trading route from Shady Sands, down to Teejay, Tucson and Ojinaga and all the way into the central Gulf of Mexico. It would stop the expansion of those Lawmen Technocrats from Lone Star and cut off the Caesar remnants from recruiting any southern tribes. Also, it would be a chance to get rich on fuel: Oil pipes stretching through miles of desert, sitting there with gasoline for out vehicles ready for the take. I wish it would have been that easy .

Four of our best VertiBirds Left us at Fort Crockett, Ojinaga, at the verge of the tribal territories. Locals told Warren about the last raid from The Air Feet, some kind of Indians who ran miles by night only to attack by dawn. They lived at caves found at the cliff side of a massive canyon. We thought it would be no obstacle for a platoon of NCR recon soldiers, led by me and a  
veteran Ranger. We had a diplomat and his secretary under our care.

Five days into the road, some kind of militia intercepted us at Tampico highway. They killed the diplomats and made us prisoners. Sold us to a foe I’d never thought we’d see again. Turns out one of Caesar’s general had a small but loyal enclave at the city of Saltillo. He had gained the trust of the local tribes and created his own militia: The Legio Aurea he called them, the golden legion. They served Caius Lentulus Legate, one of Caesar's least known commanders. He knew who we were and had his way with the female members of our platoon, to be then given as whores for his legion. 

They used the rest of us as labor force to fortify their walls and serve them as cannon fodder against the Forces of New Monterrey, Lone Star’s strategic “ally” in the area. Days went by as I saw the men that trusted me toil their lives away, reminding me of it every time they could. Warren was there with me, convincing me things would get better. One day he couldn’t take it anymore: he shouted as another of my men was taken for battle. He volunteered to take his place, whispering to me that help was coming. I managed to convince some of my men to plan our escape, to leave gaps on the city walls and  
wait for the Monterrey forces to wreak havoc. By the night, their troops were upon us. Warren returned and led the men through the wall and as the fight raged on, I gathered my platoon and fought however we could, with even the women rebelling against their former masters. We pushed towards Lentulus’ villa and killed anyone we knew was part of his government. Warren finally honored his Ranger title as he put a knife in the Legate’s throat, as he did to the legionaries on the Hoover Dam. It was over for us, and Warren had become a hero. If only we knew what would come next. 

As some of my men and me looked for a hole to escape rapidly, Warren disobeyed my orders and took the rest to surrender to the Monterrey army. I sneaked close enough behind some rubble to hear the Monterrey commander speak: “Lone Star said no survivors.”

They opened fire on anything that moved: men, women, children, the rest of my platoon, Warren, they all died by their guns. Only 12 of us made it out. 

We walked for two days towards the west, until heat or exhaustion, hell if I know, made us fall at the outskirts of some ruins. We woke up at a small but busy town called Reon, a haven for the sick and the traders. Caravans came in day and night, all supervised by the Followers of the Apocalypse and whatever few bodyguards they could afford. Turns out they had trading networks throughout this God forsaken land, From Chihuahua to Mexico City itself. They nursed us back into health best they could, in return we payed what little we had. I talked to Carmelita, the local leader and wise old lady. She was tough as nails but we were able to cut a deal. We would serve as local security and train her guards, even providing weapons, if we were allowed to establish an embassy and have some land and radio equipment in return. We started growing our small farm and were able to contact the NCR network in a matter of days. We sent a small caravan with supplies towards Fort Crockett and they sent us weapons in return. Diplomats from Nevada came in soon enough as news of our success reached into the mainland. In five months we had finally established a diplomatic mission deep within Mexico.

Orders came a week later from Shady Sands: the operation was considered a failure and we were not allowed to return until the mission was accomplished. As tears ran through my face and I smashed those wooden crates nearby, I couldn’t believe my own country couldn’t recognize the sacrifice and suffering of my men, all those days when we were so close to death. All for nothing. That same night I gathered them for the mission briefing. Just before I spoke, the idea came up to me. 

I lied to them. 

They earned themselves a place to live in relative peace, to secure our interests in a more stable territory. I left a radio message, a note for the ambassador and departed next morning with the first caravan and supplies I could carry; I would continue the mission on my own. 

I guess deep inside, I just wanted to pay for all that I made my men go through. Maybe join those in death. 

Days went by as hours while exploring the central Wasteland with the Bajio caravan . The sun burned like a hot iron, winds were always full of dust and radiation. Roads were even worse than those outside Vegas. Not counting the insects and raider parties that swarmed around us day and night. One of our guys lost an arm to a Radscorpion bite, and one of our Brahmin was devoured by a group of Radcoyotes. We had to carry a part of the supplies on our backs. 

The busy streets of Zakatex was our first stop. A city sealed from the exterior like an ancient fortress. Their buildings and streets were clean and quaint like any other city I have ever seen, but their laws were ruthless. All the outsider were expelled out of the city by nightfall, on the risk of being shot. At a dusty thug infested bar, I heard the story of a city between Volcanoes, where most of the trade from the gulf cities converged and most of the oil pipelines ran through, disputed by local warlords and raiders. Only a day and a half away from the nearest coast. Puebla, they called it.

As we swept through the lesser towns like San Juan and crime ridden cities like Potosi, that name could not get out of my head. No matter the shootouts or close calls, the name never escaped my mind. Perhaps it was the opportunity I was looking for. Perhaps it is the place where I’m destined to die.

I left the caravan outside Mexico City at the gates of Tula, a city made of iron, then followed a smaller trader group through the big highway. They used vehicles dragged by oil engines. It was the first time I ever saw one in the like, and though they were centuries old they seemed to be working whether due to the locals creativity or their pure will. We rode swiftly through the night with the northern winds caressing my weary face, I fell asleep hoping for the best. The transport stopped at dawn and woke me up with a hit when we reached a roadblock. A group of dark clothed raiders mugged us and kidnapped some of the passengers, me included. They brought us to a fortress on Puebla’s vicinity, Just where I needed to be. All it took me to escape was a small fight and a couple of dead fellow slaves. I’m still wondering if they would see it fair knowing who I am and what my mission is. I hope they would understand. 

It was all fine in the end, I had reached my goal and arrived to the promised land. 

Weeks have gone by and I still can’t get over the way the sky looks here. So green and putrid, irradiated by all the nuclear clouds coming from Mexico City no doubt. 

Downtown, it is as you might expect: piled ruins and massive hordes of Feral Ghouls. The few rational ones live underground to avoid any confrontation on a network of ancient rivers and tunnels. They are friendly and though some still don’t trust me, they are willing to trade with some extra tax. I had to do some favors at the Parian market to earn their trust. From delivering messages, salvaging cargo to saving escaping slaves, even claiming some bounties, I did it all. I learned then about the local activities. 

Some caravans pass through the north highway while some others through the south. The northern path is disputed between the forces at New Loreto Fort and the Fire Warriors, my former captors. 

The Fire Warriors can barely be distinguished from any other type of raiders, were it not for their dark clothes and Fire based weaponry: Flamethrowers, Incinerators, Fire cocktails, Fire blades, rapid fire guns, they love it all. They care for little other than themselves, robbing any caravan and demanding safe passage tolls any time they can. You either earn their respect or pray they’re in a good mood. 

On the other hand, New Loreto Fort is something worth admiring. The damn Enclave has been holding it since the Great War and has kept the pests at bay from their territory. Their equipment is beyond what the NCR history records could describe. Plasma, Laser, Rockets, they have it all. Some say they’re even breeding a new Super Mutant Force within their walls. On the outside, they keep the roads safe, quiet. Other than occasional bribe, most caravans have no problem passing through their lands. At the rate they’re growing they might either become our greatest obstacle or our strongest ally. 

Most of the biggest fights between North and South take place on the Blood Trail, an ancient boulevard which marked the gateway into the city’s heart. 

The last attack by the Cholula kingdom was futile. Rifles and Fire cocktails against lasers and plasma, it was bound to fail. The few forces scattered and ran beyond the east frontier, sparkling skirmishes with the Enclave and the Fire Warriors, while the Old ones found cover and installed their own little strongholds,supported by some locals.

It was a nightmare to venture into those lands and dealing with the Revenants. 20 days ago, I spoke to their leader Topiltzin VII as he requested by recommendation of Pablo, a mutual ghoul friend. He “hired” me to get his men out of that inhospitable area. I accepted as a way to obtain more intel on them, and found more information I could ever think of. 

I gathered as many ammo and weapons as possible and headed to the frontier during the night, killing as many Revenants as I could. I was surprised to find out how difficult killing mutant roadkill can be. Their tentacles can be even stronger than a Power Fist, and they spit acid from any direction. 

As the night went by, I found several Enclave patrols preparing for battle, they would attack the Old Ones at dawn with full strength. I sneaked into every stronghold and delivered the news, they all panicked as they realized their situation. One of their captains sent messengers and then told me of his plan: we would make a run for their home, running south towards the highway and hoping the Revenants would slow them down. I agreed and as the first beam of light appeared on the horizon, they screamed and charged towards the road, away from the confused Enclave soldiers. 

Laser and plasma beams whistled on the back of our heads, a rocket blew up some unlucky warriors in the back. We mustered the few forces we could on our way back, more ran into our flock and fired on any Revenant that stood in our path. We eventually ran into the Carnage Hills, so the Old Ones called them. The Nahuals descended upon us and we fought them however we could. We ran even faster, throwing them Fire cocktails, dynamite, knives, spears, even rocks to scare them off. Those overgrown Night Stalkers were tough as a Deathclaw. I’ve never seen one but I can’t imagine something tougher than that.

Somehow, we survived and made it into the New Cholula territory by dusk. 

They received us as their ancestors did: with parties, drinking, lavish costumes, firing to the air. They picked up one from the bunch and named him the charge leader for the next battle, the first one in the field and the first one to die with a bomb strapped to his back. A hero’s treatment was the least they could give him.

They paid me and let me stay all I wanted. Their lifestyle is something I never heard of. They call themselves the Old Ones because of their beliefs. Way before the Great War, their land was populated by a mixture of many tribes, many cultures living in peace. They chose to get back to the old ways after the world was destroyed. 

Their governments are ruled by tradition more than law, with positions that have some kind of religious relevance. They have rituals and festivals full of color. The great leader is elected by a council of wise men and backed up by high priests. Anyone can be picked by them as a new member of the council.

They live in ruins and improvised houses, painted with many vibrant colors, making the lights of the Strip look like a cheap imitation.  
Trading is important for them as well, they trade goods the old way, using little to no currency. They still accept bottle caps nevertheless. 

The strength is not in fire power but numbers, and despite the odds, they prefer to die fighting and claim small wins rather than to look for a decisive strike. A diplomacy of war, just like their ancestors.

I guess this is life for people, they have only dreamed of a warrior's death, surviving and recovering some goods and prisoners from firefights. It has kept their food stock plenty, even if it’s only with “mysterious” beef to make “Posole”, the broth of their ancestors. In two days, they are planning another direct attack on New Loreto. It will be another day in the life of an endless war.

Or so they think...

I heard rumors among the ghouls and after raiding the feral infested Town hall, Pablo and I found a holotape and some schematics of the old tunnels, hoping to find another way around the hill. As we made our way out, the Fire Warriors intercepted us. We would be dead were it not for Smoking Mirror, the smallest son of the Fire Warriors’ Chieftain. He saved us and demanded any information we could provide, since his people couldn’t read the maps. He told me they would cooperate and give me land, He would ascend to the throne and create a mighty empire, where looting would be no more and oil would be traded freely among the Wasteland, providing me all that I ever wished for. He let us go and disappeared within the ruins.

As we finally reached the central tunnels, we heard roaring oil engines and discovered an alarming phenomenon: small Fire Warrior patrols engaged the Ghoul hordes on the surface. They are trying to take the ancient city’s center with their vehicles and firepower. It will be not long before they find us.

It is the morning of the day before the attack on New Loreto Fort. We found a route through some kind of Radio building and found some old terminals and communications equipment. It still works.

The rubble and radiation covering the entrance and windows can buy us some time, and we brought all the civilian Ghouls we could. We’re safe here for now.

I found a way into New Loreto Fort. The tunnel exists, and even if it’s caved in, some explosives are the only thing preventing me to use it and bring New Loreto’s downfall. I also found a coded frequency used by the Enclave. I could bargain for some land and protection in exchange for some intel. 

It has come to this.

I am not blind and know that each one of the factions disputing this Wasteland can be a potential ally for the NCR, but also a liability.

What sense would it make to support the New Cholula Kingdom, when their stubborn traditions, archaic beliefs and prone to corruption government keeps them from seeing a long term project and a better tomorrow?  
Nevertheless, beliefs are the base of our institutions in the end. What is democracy but a tradition from the Old world? The belief that cooperation can bring a better result and a brighter future.

What would be the point of giving the Fire Warriors a way to end their foe once and for all, helping a new leader to rise into power, if his people are prone to violence and selfishness while this potential leader is practically unknown to most of us?  
And still, wouldn’t that be what we want? Overthrowing the powerful enemies and fighting an unstable government we could easily overthrow as our troops swept across the area, taking the spoils and securing a trade route throughout Mexico.

How could I even consider bargaining with the Enclave, our oldest enemy, knowing that they possess the technology and resources to obliterate any enemy in the area, only with the fading hope that they will cooperate with us and give me what I demand in exchange for total control?

Despite this, I’m certain that their technology will be the only way to guarantee any lasting order on this Wasteland. The cooperation between The Enclave and the NCR could be the only way to stop the expansion of powerful armies like New Monterrey. We made a truce with the Brotherhood back in Vegas, why would this be any different?

It is now when I inform you that even if it is my greatest achievement or my biggest mistake, I’ve made my decision, and despite superior orders, I have decided to keep it to myself.

Should I fail, this message has been sent through another communication relay on an NCR frequency, hoping this intel will serve my superiors.

All my life I found no purpose in whatever I did. I joined the service expecting to find an easy life away from my drunk dad and my absent hard-working mum . And even when they looked so proud to see me in my army uniform, I couldn’t care less about them. Please tell them I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t save Daniel from drinking that radioactive water so long ago. I’m sorry for everything.

All those close calls, all that suffering, all the countless days of walking, made me understand that all my heart ever aspired to was to be a hero or a martyr. I always left it to Lady Luck. Today, as the day dies out, I choose for myself.

It’s my turn to be a hero.

In the end i doubt anyone will remember me. I’m a soldier, and they shouldn’t be made heroes for what they’re expected to do, but to go beyond. Heroes make history but never write it. Still, I’m sure that even if this region is pacified, there will be more battles to fight and war will rise once again. That’s what I learned about war… and that war…

War never changes...

Lt. Mark Herrera 

P.S..:

Cassidy, now I remember her. Whiskey Rose, the bartender called her. Seems she was trying to forget something, or someone.Tell her I say hello...

{End Transmission….}


End file.
